


Behind Me In The Mirror

by tieressian



Series: Paranormal, Supernatural, and Mythological AUs No One Asked For [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky just needs a friend, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Ghosts, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Medication, Murder, Nightmares, Ouija, POV Bucky Barnes, Paranormal, Past Abuse, that friend doesnt stay a friend for long, that friend is a ghost, wink wonk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:08:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24081829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tieressian/pseuds/tieressian
Summary: Bucky Barnes finally gets an apartment of his own.Of course he chooses a haunted one.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Series: Paranormal, Supernatural, and Mythological AUs No One Asked For [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1761511
Comments: 7
Kudos: 129





	Behind Me In The Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> I cranked this out in one day help.
> 
> This is kinda experimental, is barely edited, and is 90% written whilst sleep deprived. Enjoy! (mind the tags, please!)

The apartment is cheap.

 _Suspiciously_ cheap.

And maybe Bucky is just being paranoid, but the landlord seems almost... _elated_ , as she hands him the keys to the small Brooklyn flat. As if she’s passing off a burden onto him.

He has enough burdens, thank you very much.

But he takes the keys and accepts the dumb housewarming gifts (he’s going to kill Sam for the ‘Bless This Nest’ embroidery). Arranges the furniture to his heart’s content and fills the cabinets with all the junk food the twenty-first century has to offer.

Because finally, _finally,_ he has a place to call his own.

Sure, there was Bucharest; and the string of run down apartments before that. But those were all temporary. And even when he tried to settle down for real (aka. Bucharest), there were always armed SWAT teams breaking down the door and taking him into custody (aka. Bucharest).

But those days are far behind him. A brief stint in Wakanda to get his head sorted out, and he’s good as new (well, ‘new’ being a very... _flexible_ term). He has a therapist now, and medications _,_ and an honest-to-god _dream journal._ He can confidently say that he is—at the very least—a semi-stable hundred year old man. 

And like any semi-stable individual, he needs somewhere to live.

Might as well be Brooklyn.

It was painful, at first. Seeing the changes, the differences; the loss of what he used to know like the back of his hand. But, like always, he adapted. And he’s now able to walk past the rows of Starbucks without wanting to tear his hair out. 

He’s managed to carve out a place for himself in this chaotic world, and he’d be damned if he ever let go of it.

* * * *

The thermostat breaks in the first week.

But it only breaks for _him._

And that doesn’t make any goddamn sense.

The landlord says it’s fine, the repairman says it’s fine. Hell, even _Steve_ says it’s fine. Steve “what-the-hell-is-an-Apple” Rogers, giving him advice on technology.

He’d laugh if he weren’t so fucking _cold._

He’s hated the feeling for as long as he could remember. Before Hydra, before the war; back when he was still living with his Ma and sisters, sleeping in a pile to stave off the drafty chill. Bundling Steve in his jacket so he wouldn’t keel over and die of pneumonia, ignoring his own discomfort as he brushed off Steve’s stubborn protests.

Of course, being subjected to decade’s worth of Russian winters didn’t help much, either.

It’s as if someone had reached inside his head and plucked out his own personal hell. The temperature always just a _few_ degrees lower than it’s supposed to be. Not enough to be noticeable, but enough for his breath to crystallize in the chilly air. Enough for him to pull on several layers of sweaters and cook beneath the wool.

If that isn’t torture enough, he always feels like he’s being _watched._ The heavy weight of a pair of eyes burning into his back like sunlight through a magnifying glass.

But the problem is, he knows he _isn’t._ Being watched, that is. He’s checked the perimeter dozens of times, swept the place for bugs, interrogated his poor, elderly neighbor (and then apologized with a plate of cookies). Just to come to the same conclusion he’s had since the beginning. That it is physically impossible for someone to be watching him.

So how the _fuck_ is this happening? 

He trusts his gut more than his own mind, and right now, his instincts are screaming that something’s off. There’s that familiar pit in his stomach—like he’s riding the Coney Island Cyclone all over again—and he knows that he’s in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.

So, he calls in Natasha. The only person he trusts with instincts better than his own. 

She—thankfully—decides to humor him and his irrationalities. Combing through his apartment more thoroughly than even he had (discovering some faulty wiring in the process). Turning the place upside down and even going so far as to confront his neighbor, again (the two of them have tea together, and Natasha leaves her apartment with a loaf of fruit cake).

She eventually comes to the same conclusion he has. Quirking her eyebrows in that brutally familiar it’s-all-in-your-head mentality that makes him want to vomit.

“Everything seems normal, Barnes,” she says cooly, measuring her words carefully as she slices into the loaf and takes a delicate nibble, “but if anything changes, be sure to call me.”

She leaves the fruit cake on the table.

Bucky throws it out.

* * * *

Nothing out of the ordinary happens for another week.

He spends that week wrapped up in blankets, padding about the apartment with two pairs of socks on because the floor is _that_ cold. He looks completely ridiculous, he knows. Bundled head to toe in a colorful array of coats, sweaters, hats, and blankets. But he has no other viable options. He’s tried to talk to his landlord, but after the first few attempts, she’s become suspiciously evasive. Avoiding his calls, ducking around the corner whenever he approaches, asking whether or not he’s going to leave soon. Which is strange, considering how he’s never even mentioned wanting to move out.

But all that is pushed aside once his nightmares start up again.

It’s the cold, he guesses. The chill that curls around him every waking hour, squeezing the air from his lungs and the warmth from his skin. Painful memories brought to the surface with every icy gust. It’s to be expected, really. Recovery isn’t linear (if he had a nickel for every time his therapist’s said that…), and he shouldn’t be too disappointed by this sudden setback.

Doesn’t mean he has to fucking like it.

He finds himself awake at three in the goddamn morning, staring pensively into the microwave as he heats up water for the fifth night in a row. Tea, he’s found, is surprisingly helpful. And he’s managed to push his pride aside and buy almost a cabinet-full of the stuff. It’s a comfort thing, familiarity. Fixing himself a cup just like his Ma used to. With a splash of milk and a few scraggly tea leaves; maybe a sprinkling of sugar, if they were lucky enough to have some.

But nowadays, he can walk down the street and buy a five pound bag of sugar for just three dollars. And with no one around to lecture him, what’s stopping him from adding an ungodly amount of the stuff to his drink?

Absolutely nothing.

So, diabetes-inducing drink in hand, he turns to place the sugar back into the cabinet.

And that’s when _it_ happens.

One moment the cabinet’s open, the next it’s shut. The door brushing past his knuckles as it slams closed, moving with far more force than if it were just the wind. The loud crash of wood against wood puts him on edge, hackles raised as he tentatively reaches out and pokes the offending frame. When nothing extraordinary happens, he numbly opens the door and places the sugar inside, backing away as if he’s just disarmed a bomb. Trying and failing to rationalize whatever the fuck he’s just been witness to.

 _There’s terror in the unexplainable_ , he muses to himself, taking a sip of his sugary brew and backpedalling out of the room.

_Let’s keep it that way._

* * * *

It happens again the very next day.

He’s watching TV, some random nature documentary that easily fades into the background. Droning voices that help distract him from the unnatural chill in the air. An afghan blanket thrown over his shoulders, a mug of something hot clutched in his hands as the steam wafts into his frozen face. Tongue burning as he takes a long sip of the scalding hot liquid.

They’re talking about giraffes (or maybe it’s lions, he’s not really paying attention), when he notices the shift. 

The crushing weight of the mystery gaze presses down on his chest, temperatures plummeting as fractals of ice spread across the surface of his drink. There’s a distinct feeling of being watched that settles over him, pulse quickening as he slyly glances about the room, failing to locate the elusive observer. 

His breath catches in his throat, frozen like a slab of ice as he watches the television screen devolve into static. A pitching whine wending through the air as a silhouette forms in front of the flickering lights, garbled noises spilling from the speakers that _almost_ sound human, but ultimately fall short.

He can’t move, can’t breathe. Can only watch as the shadow comes more and more into focus, humanesque features legible through the fuzzy blur of static. There’s a sentence, a phrase, that’s being forced into his brain. Incomprehensible murmuring and screeching that makes his head pound and ears bleed. He sputters, squeezing his eyes shut to shield himself from the sight, only to open them again as morbid curiosity takes over. 

It’s like nothing had ever happened.

The narrator’s talking about the eating habits of giraffes, his cup of tea is still piping hot, and the temperature has actually gone _up_ a few degrees. A shocking change that actually scares him _more_ than the once subzero temperatures. His head swivels about in a panic, gaping as he takes in the picture-perfect normalcy that surrounds him; a stark contrast to the supernatural hellscape he’s just been subjected to.

He should talk to his therapist about this.

* * * *

The medicine is working, he supposes. 

No more hallucinations, no more slamming cupboards, no more piercing screams.

He’s still cold, though. Nothing seems to change that.

He stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, fumbling with the cap of his antidepressants as he shakes two tablets into his palm. Popping them into his mouth and swallowing them dry. He lets out a quick breath as they travel down his throat, twisting the cap back on the bottle and tossing it into the drawer. The countless other vials rattling about like dice as he closes the cabinet with a forceful slam.

He sighs again, carding his fingers through his shoulder-length hair as he glances up at his reflection. Color leaching from his face as he spots something looming over his shoulder.

It’s...well... _it._

The spectre.

There’s no time to panic, no time to think; no time to take in what it looks like. He simply whirls around and grabs the gun tucked beneath the sink, aiming exactly where the spectre had been hovering moments before.

Key words being _had been._

It’s gone.

Dread settles in his gut like a weighted stone, slowly turning on his heel as he spins around to face the mirror. Stomach dropping to his feet as he sees what it’s done.

Viscous red liquid is smeared across the pane, dripping down onto the countertop with a sickly _plop plop plop_ that makes his stomach churn _._ It’s impossible, is what it is. Impossible for someone to have moved so _fast,_ for someone to have snuck up on him in the first place.

And as he reads the message scrawled across the mirror—the letters fading away before his very eyes—he begins to realize what he’s dealing with.

Afterall, what normal person would write out ‘ **leave’** in _blood?_

* * * *

He doesn’t leave.

In fact, he does something even stupider. 

He should’ve left—it’d _literally_ been spelled out for him—but he’s too stubborn to do so. He’s worked his ass off to get where he is today, and he isn’t going to abandon it all because a weird shadow person threw a little tantrum.

Shadow person, spectre, spirit; whatever it is, he knows it’s _real._ It has to be, _it has to be._

Otherwise he’s looking _real_ stupid right about now.

He lights the surrounding candles with a solemness he doesn’t feel, sitting cross legged on the ground and carefully unfolding the Ouija board. Placing the plastic planchette in the center and trying not to feel as ridiculous as he undoubtedly looks. This wasn’t his first course of action, obviously (he wouldn’t normally jump to the supernatural in a situation like this). But he’s done some digging, and all the pieces seem to fit into place. Like a toddler shoving a square into a circular hole.

Apparently, several decades ago, a girl had died in this apartment. And although there weren’t many details on the circumstances—he’s surprised he even managed to uncover it—he does know one thing.

It was grisly.

That ticks off the check marks, he thinks. And if the landlord’s reluctance to talk is anything to go by, he’s certainly on the right track.

Although he may be barreling off a cliff.

Either way, he’s bought himself a Ouija board (at the _toy store_ of all places), stocked up on candles, and ‘borrowed’ a jar of salt. And here he is now, performing an occult ritual, by himself, because he doesn’t want to bother anyone with his problems.

Man, he really should talk to that therapist.

With an air of finality, he rests his fingertips atop the planchette. Swirling the piece of manufactured plastic around the board three times before settling in the middle. Swallowing past the lump in his throat and opening his mouth to speak.

“Is anybody there?” he calls, wincing as the reality of what he’s doing crashes into him. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be feeding into his delusions. He should move out, go to a professional psychologist, and never look at a Ouija board ever again.

But before he can even _think_ of removing his fingers, the planchette twitches; gravitating towards the clearly printed **yes.**

“What the hell,” he murmurs, writing it off as a miscalibration from his prosthetic, “uh..what’s your name?”

The planchette darts across the board, dragging him along as he watches with wide eyes. The movements are even, deliberate; and what they spell out is far too familiar.

“You’re...you’re the girl. The girl who died,” he breathes, more convinced by the second as he recognizes the string of letters.

**Yes.**

“How—how did you die?” he wonders, belatedly realizing that may have been a bad question to ask.

**M-U-R-D-E-R**

“Who?”

**B-F**

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says lamely, unsure how to apologize to what he’s beginning to suspect is a genuine ghost.

The planchette glides across the board, unhindered by his stilted movements as it swans from one letter to the next.

**Y-O-U D-O-N-T B-E-L-I-E-V-E M-E**

“I’m still struggling with the fact ghosts may be real,” he says weakly, blood beginning to run cold as the temperature dips. The weight of her gaze pushing the air from his lungs.

 **J-A-M-E-S,** she spells out, and he swears his heart stops beating.

**L-E-A-V-E**

He rips his hands away from the planchette, watching in horror as a brutal gust of wind picks up in the apartment. Billowing past him and sweeping up anything that isn't nailed down, papers and cups and other knick-knacks whirling around as if trapped inside a tornado. The air slices at him like a knife, buffeting him from side to side like a ship fighting the raging seas. But he stands his ground, knuckles turning white as he clutches at the carpet like a lifeline.

A horrible, tortured wailing starts up as the spectre flickers in and out of view. Standing in the eye of the hurricane as her wispy tendrils gradually come into focus, arms outspread and jaw unhinged as she screeches. It’s almost unfortunate how beautiful she is. Surrounded by a soft, ghostly glow that reminds him of Shakespeare’s moonlight or a necklace of pearls. Gorgeous features and a confident stature that would do it for him if she was, well, alive. 

As a ghost currently trying to kill him, maybe an 8/10.

Her presence is accompanied by a suffocating sense of existential dread, staring into her spiderwebbed irises and realizing _ah yes, this is what comes after._ Waves of pulsing cold washing over him like arctic waters, threatening to pull him under and lock him beneath the ice.

The standoff lasts for maybe a minute, but it feels like an eternity before she lowers her arms. Regarding him with a deathly cold stare that makes sweat prickle at his temples.

“ **You didn’t leave,”** she muses, her voice melodic and grating at the same time. Like dragging your nails down a chalkboard whilst playing Beethoven’s symphonies. The wind dies down and everything clatters to the floor, glass shattering distantly as he stares into her endless eyes.

“No, I didn’t” he whispers, not even daring to blink.

 **“Everyone else had left by now,”** she says softly, mostly to herself. Gliding closer as she dives in for a closer look, **“why are you still here?”**

“Uh, I don’t know,” he mumbles, not wanting to spill his soul to a ghost who just seconds ago was trying to kill him.

She ducks down and stares into his eyes, looking through him in a way that makes him feel like a bug beneath a microscope. Tilting her head to the side with a knowing smile playing on her spectral lips.

 **“I like you,”** she hums, nightgown trailing at her ankles as she floats backwards, hair whipping about as if trapped in a windstorm, **“you may stay.”** She begins to fade out of existence, her presence a mere afterthought in the chaos of the room.

“Wait!” he calls out, internally kicking himself as she materializes once again. Maybe she’ll actually kill him, this time. It’s not like he can fight a ghost, “can I...can I take a picture? So I know you’re real?”

She stares at him in shock, face morphing into a beaming smile as she giggles.

 **“No one’s asked for a picture before,”** she says, cheeks gaining a bit more color as she clasps her hands behind her back, **“usually they’re too busy screaming.”**

“You tend to have that effect,” he says dryly, grinning slightly as she laughs some more.

 **“You think so? I copied horror movies most of the time,”** she reveals, voice hushed as if sharing a monumental secret.

“The bloody mirror was a bit cliche.”

She laughs again, tilting forwards as she hovers off the ground, toes pointed like a ballerina’s as she pillows her head in her hands.

 **“So, are you going to take the picture?”** she asks, waiting patiently.

He nods, thanking his lucky stars that this ghost isn’t as homicidal as he originally thought. Taking out his phone and snapping a quick picture, breath punching out of him in a gasp as he sees the undeniable proof.

She’s real.

 **“Wow,”** she gawks, peering over his shoulder and staring at the screen. Radiating a freezing aura that chills him to the bone, **“that’s amazing.”**

He’s suddenly hit with the realization that she’s been here for decades, locked in this house and forced to coexist with undoubtedly horrible living roommates. He would’ve flipped his lid in the first month, and she’s been living ( _ha_ ) like this since 1982. 

Alone.

“Yeah, you could say that,” he mutters.

She smiles, and fades away.

* * * *

He hasn’t seen her since that night.

But she’s there, he knows it. Can feel the weight of her stare from time to time, temperatures plummeting in random intervals that send him into shivering fits.

He’s in the midst of one when he tries to talk to her again. Still reeling over a particularly troubling nightmare, the biting cold doing little to help his spiralling thoughts. A simple cup of tea no longer enough to comfort him.

He calls her name, feels her eyes burn into his skull as he begins to speak, “I’m sorry but...can you take away the cold? I can’t...I can’t deal with it anymore…” He shivers pathetically, shame coiling in his gut as he hears the desperation in his tone of voice.

A gust of warm air brushes over his shoulders, muscles relaxing as heat rolls over him in a comforting blanket of sensation. A soft sigh falls from his lips as tension bleeds from his spine, relishing in the sudden burst of heat after so long in the aching cold.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, goosebumps prickling his skin as he feels fingertips ghost over his right arm.

It’s never cold again.

* * * *

He really should tell someone about her.

But then again, who would believe him?

He contemplates this late in the night, stumbling out of his room and traipsing into the kitchen. Blindly groping through the cabinets in search of a mug, pushing away the memory of his most recent nightmare as he goes through the motions. Struggling to pull himself together and make himself a _goddamn cup of tea--_

There’s a soft nudge against his arm, wind tugging at his sleeve and drawing his attention to the countertop. A gentle prod to his spine that sends him stumbling forward a few steps. He glances downward, an appreciative smile pulling at his lips as he sees what she’s done.

There’s a piping hot cup of tea on the countertop, the liquid rippling as wind flurries around it in a happy rush. Steam wafts through the air, twisting and turning in order to form a message over the rim.

**Drink.**

He obliges, warmth settling in his gut as he tastes the perfectly made drink. A splash of milk and a shit ton of sugar, just how he likes it. Maybe he should be unnerved, considering how she’s learnt his preferences through _watching_ him. But there’s not much either of them can do, considering how she can’t even leave the house. That she can’t keep herself visible for more than a few minutes at a time.

So he takes another sip of the drink, smiling softly as he feels her gaze press down on his shoulders.

He could get used to this.

* * * * 

“Cathy, you need to wait for the cake to cool before you ice it. God _,_ even _I_ know that,” Bucky grimaces, booing at the TV as Cathy unwisely begins to spread buttercream over the piping hot pastry. He glances at the coffee table as he hears a scraping noise, the plastic planchette darting across the Ouija board like a hummingboard flitting between flowers.

**D-A-V-E F-O-R-G-O-T H-I-S M-A-C-A-R-O-N-S**

“Fuck, Dave, no!” he shouts, panicking over the state of his favorite contestant. Grabbing another Oreo from its sleeve and shoving it into his mouth, enrapturedly watching the long-awaited finale of The Great British Bake Off.

**C-A-T-H-Y I-S G-O-I-N-G T-O W-I-N**

“I’ve waited too long for Dave to lose,” he says somberly, “You and I both know Cathy doesn’t deserve the win.”

**D-I-D Y-O-U S-E-E W-H-A-T S-H-E M-A-D-E T-H-E F-I-R-S-T E-P-I-S-O-D-E**

**D-A-V-E D-O-E-S-N-T S-T-A-N-D A C-H-A-N-C-E**

“You’ll be singing a different tune soon enough, mark my words,” he promises, huddling beneath the blanket as he licks the cream off of an Oreo. The timer runs out, and the contestants line up, the judges admiring their creations and taking tiny nibbles of the pastries.

**W-E W-I-L-L S-E-E**

He waits with bated breath as they prepare to announce the winner, shouting indignantly as Cathy is ultimately crowned victor.

“That’s bullshit!” he cries, glaring at the Ouija board as the planchette does a victorious dance.

**T-O-L-D Y-O-U S-O**

“Go fuck yourself,” he grouses, yelping as the blanket is ripped off of him and draped over the TV, “hey!”

**W-H-O-O-P-S**

“I’m calling an exorcist,” he threatens weakly, narrowing his eyes where he suspects she’s hovering.

**T-H-A-T-S F-O-R D-E-M-O-N-S**

“Whatever,” he huffs, snatching the blanket and wrapping it around his shoulders, grumbling unintelligibly as he curses England for investing him in this show.

**S-O-R-E L-O-S-E-R**

He blindly flips her off, barely managing to block the Oreo she fires at his forehead.

* * * *

He’s brushing his teeth in the morning, spitting into the sink and wiping off the froth with the back of his hand. Combing his fingers through his hair and turning to check his reflection.

“Goddamn it,” he groans, staring into the mirror and reading the message written in blood.

**Don’t forget your meds.**

“I got you an expo marker,” he reprimands, hands on his hips as he glares at himself in the mirror, “where’d ya even get the blood, anyway?”

Another message smears across the glass, fresh blood dripping down the pane.

**Borrowed it.**

“That’s reassuring.”

**> :(**

He rolls his eyes fondly and reaches into the drawer, grabbing his pill bottles and popping the tablets into his mouth. He twists the caps back on in one quick motion, smiling thankfully as he regards the fading message.

“Thanks for the reminder,” he grins, eyelids fluttering as deceivingly warm fingers stroke up his spine.

**:)**

“But no more blood!”

The expo marker uncaps and scribbles over the mirror, the simplistic message making him snort.

**Meanie.**

* * * * 

“I know I don’t have the right to ask,” he begins one night, staring pensively at the Ouija board as he sets the planchette in the middle, “but if you want to talk about...how you died. I’m here for you.”

There’s a moment of stillness, a ghostly pressure curling around his bicep before pulling away. The planchette skitters across the board with nervous hesitance, warm air blowing his hair back as he watches with kind understanding.

**M-Y B-O-Y-F-R-I-E-N-D A-N-D I G-O-T I-N-T-O A F-I-G-H-T**

**I W-A-N-T-E-D T-O B-R-E-A-K U-P B-U-T H-E W-O-U-L-D-N-T L-E-T M-E**

The planchette stills, the air dropping in temperature before apologetically rising again.

**I-T G-O-T P-H-Y-S-I-C-A-L**

He can hardly breathe.

**H-E B-E-A-T M-E U-N-T-I-L I S-T-O-P-P-E-D M-O-V-I-N-G**

“God, I…” he glances downwards, tears welling in his eyes as he tries to blink them away. He knows she’s dead, but never before has it been so crystal clear. So obvious that she’s been gone for years and years and _years_ . To the point that she may have forgotten what it was like to be _living,_ “I’m sorry.”

**I-M O-V-E-R I-T**

He tenses at the phantom sensation of fingers twining through his own, cold and warm at the same time.

**T-H-A-N-K-S T-O Y-O-U**

*** * * ***

He’s drifting between sleep and wakefulness, thoughts slow and syrupy as they slosh about inside his skull. Drifting from one topic to the next, soft and buoyant like clouds of cotton candy. 

Floating between dreams and nightmares.

A cold draft brushes over his naked torso, triggering a bout of shivers that pushes the blanket further down to his ankles. Sluggishly, he reaches out to grab the covers, accomplishing nothing more than clumsily slapping the mattress. A sleepy whine tumbling from his throat as he curls up into the fetal position.

That’s when the warmth curls around him, a hot breeze that makes him melt into the mattress like butter in a pan. He’s half aware of the blanket being draped over him, tucked into bed like a child as a ghostly pair of lips softly kiss his forehead.

He falls asleep, and forgets the moment by the morning.

* * * *

_Recovery isn’t linear._

He repeats that stupid phrase to himself a thousand times. Standing beneath the scalding spray of the showerhead as he tries to scrub the filth from his body. Cursing the blood that stains his hands and refuses to wash away, rubbing his skin raw as he fights not to break down.

_Recovery isn’t linear._

He turns off the faucet and hops out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist as he struggles to breathe. Water dripping from his hair and running in rivulets down his skin, the steamy air filling his mouth with each shaky inhale.

_Recovery isn’t linear._

He turns to the mirror and swipes at the condensation, staring at his reflection and hating what he sees.

A monster.

_Recovery isn’t linear._

Inhale, one two three four.

Hold, one two three four five six seven.

Exhale, one two three four five six seven eight.

Repeat.

_Recovery isn’t linear._

He bows his head and presses his forehead to the glass, squeezing his eyes shut before defeatedly pulling away. Jumping in surprise at what he sees in the mirror.

It’s her.

She’s smiling at him, staring at him from inside the mirror as if she’s his own reflection. He stares at her dumbly, blinking hard as she sends him a cute little wave, his breath fogging up the mirror as he leans in. She reaches forward and presses her pointer finger to the glass, tongue poking out from between her teeth as she traces a smiley face over the fogged up pane.

She blinks out of existence as soon as she appears. His reflection returning to normal as he stares amusedly at the smiley face hovering over his own; the poor thing already dripping with condensation.

God, he loves her.

* * * *

He let himself go soft.

It was foolish, he knows, to forget the dangers. To forget just what he’s been running from for all those years.

And now he’s paying the price.

They come in the night, overpowering him with sheer numbers alone. Deactivating his arm (he’ll need to talk to Shuri about that, if he makes it out) and tying him up with little effort, leaving him helpless on the floor as they begin to search through his apartment.

That’s when the screaming starts.

Wet thumps of meat and inhuman howling that sets his teeth on edge, wind buffeting at the walls and throwing the men about like ragdolls. Terrified shrieking that devolves into slick gargling as bodies hit the ground, cracking bones that crumble into piles of viscera and gristle. A sickly _drip drip drip_ that stains the walls and floor, even the ceiling isn’t spared from the viscous spray of blood.

The bedroom door opens with an ominous creak, and he shifts slightly in his bindings. Staring in a mix of awe and terror as she glides in, eyes pitch black and yawning with the weight of the universe. Her gaze softens as she sets sights on him, swooping in and brushing his hair back with a gentle gust of wind.

 **“Oh James,”** she cooes, the otherworldly cadence of her voice making him shiver. With a flick of her wrist the bindings tear apart, his prosthetic limp and useless as he sits up onto his knees, **“are you okay?”**

“Yeah,” he rasps, staring mesmerized into her infinite pupils, pulled forward as if tied on a string, “thank you, for saving me.”

She shifts forward, seemingly just as entranced, **“I’ll always be there to protect you.”**

A beat passes, and the next thing he knows they’ve crashed into each other like ships lost in the night. Lips melding together in a shifting sensation of warm and cold, life and death. Wind swirling around them both as warmth settles over him from head to toe.

He pulls away to breathe and she chases after his lips, not needing to draw in breath like he does. Pressing incessant kisses to the corner of his mouth that turns him into putty.

“I love you,” he gasps, rightness settling in his bones as the words slip past his kiss swollen lips.

 **“I love you, too,”** she echoes, nightgown billowing out around her hips as she cups his face in her death-chilled hands, **“and I will love you for an eternity.”**

He’s finally found a place in this world.

And he’d be damned if he ever let go of her.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed!


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